


Twenty red roses

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human AU, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Crowley (Good Omens), University Setting, age gap, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He couldn’t really pin-point an exact moment when the fleeting thoughts became an obsession, nor what sparked it. For all he knew he just— Quietly snowballed from distractedly glancing at Professor Fell’s bottom hugged in those filled trousers to purposefully getting into bed with light blonde men, wishing they could be someone else specifically.Even Ligur had noticed the way he checked Professor Fell out, and when Hastur joined them as their third roommate they both ganged up to give him endless shit about it.“He’s definitely taken anyway,” Hastur said one time, ignoring Crowley’s glare. “Someone from the STEM department, for what I gather.”Of course Professor Fell was taken, why wouldn’t he? He was just— Fantastic. So smart, and witty, and funny. And, again, Crowley couldn’t stress it enough, those thighs were to kill for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 244
Collections: Anonymous, Anonymous Fics





	Twenty red roses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3189854#cmt3189854) on the GO kink meme. OP probably meant it to be more thirst and smut, but alas everything I touch turns into feelings, so here we are.
> 
> There's a 25 years age gap between Crowley and Aziraphale in this one, but everything is 100% consensual from both parts, if a bit foggy and messy because of their complicated feelings for one another and their own life problems. If knowing this the idea still squicks you, this is probably not the fic for you.

The first time professor Fell started a lecture he made everyone laugh.

Not at him, no.  _ With _ him.

“My name is Aziraphale Fell,” he started with a soft spoken but clear voice, after taking a minute or two once all students had seated to slide a pair of tiny round spectacles on his nose. He spelled his curious name on the blackboard in big, blocky letters, before turning around with a pleasant smile. “I’ve heard  _ all _ of the jokes about my name, but I usually like to give new classes a chance to try. I like to be surprised,” he adjusted the glasses with a pinky sticking out. “If anyone can manage, you’ll all get one ‘ _ get out of jail free’ _ card to use when you’ll inevitably run late with one of your essays. You have five minutes.”

There was a moment of complete silence, and then the scramble of chairs turning so students could start to bounce ideas between each other.

Crowley hadn’t known anyone, back then. Even his roommate, Ligur, he had barely met the day before. So he just sat with his chin resting on his hand, observing as their professor peacefully took books and stacks of notes out of his light brown leather bag, along with a tartan patterned thermos that Crowley would learn, at a later time, tended to contain hot cocoa more often than not.

He surprised them at the end of the five minutes by blowing in a whistle, a shrill noise echoing into the room. Everyone dragged their chair back in the original position. Crowley was quietly amused by the fact that some were holding onto pieces of paper, where surely they must’ve jotted down their ideas of a joke.

And then Professor Fell walked back and forth in front of the class as attempts at a joke, some desperate and some fairly clever, were read out loud by Crowley’s classmates.

And Professor Fell would smile, as he replied “heard that in kindergarten, sorry,” and “that is not how rhymes works, goodness gracious!” and “good attempt, fantastic comedic timing— Not a new one, sadly.”

And they all chuckled together, none of tenseness of a first day in a new environment left, and then—

“Do you wish to try, my dear?” Professor Fell asked Crowley, who hadn't moved from his position at all. He knew he was sitting obnoxiously. He was an obnoxious person in general, with his long red hair he refused to cut and his black clothing and his inability to stuff his long, gangly limbs under a desk.

Crowley hadn’t really been able to come up with anything at all. He looked at the professor for long seconds and then blurted “Did it hurt when you  _ Fell _ from heaven?”

Professor Fell blinked at him from behind his spectacle, and then snickered behind a hand.

“Funny. Not a new one, but funny nonetheless,” he replied, gray eyes twinkling in amusement. “Good attempts, but sadly, no out of jail free cards will be handed out, today.”

The class protested, but it was clear no one was really ticked off, amusement clear in the air.

It was alright, though. Crowley would make sure to never run late with his essays.

The thought that Professor Fell’s thighs looked really quite fantastic in those trousers followed not long after that.

—

“What’s wrong, now.”

“You already know.”

“Oh, no. He’s being creepy? Again?”

“I can hear you,” Crowley grunted, voice muffled as his face was still fully sinking into one of their old, creaky couch’s pillows. Hastur and Ligur snickered. Bastards.

“It’s nigh time you get over it, mate,” Ligur’s voice was close now. Crowley turned his head on a side, glaring at his roommate who was now leaning on the back of the couch from the other side, tilting an eyebrow down at him. “I get it, I really do, we all had a phase like that—“

“Oh, Mrs. Daber, my math teacher in middle school,” Hastur sighed from somewhere around the kitchenette corner. “She had quite the balcony, if you catch my drift.”

Ligur rolled his eyes, even though a smile was pulling at his lips. “My point is… We also all got over it. C’mon, mate.”

“I can’t get over it!” Crowley dramatically exclaimed, turning belly up and making the couch groan ominously just to throw his arms up, exasperated. “You have no idea— If only you’d seen the way he ate that cupcake this afternoon—“

“Eugh, mate, TMI,” Hastur groaned. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Fuck you guys,” Crowley grumbled, winning a snort from Ligur, who rushed to take a step backwards to avoid being headbutted when Crowley sprung up in a sitting position. “I’m going for a run.”

—

Crowley wasn’t an athletic person by any stretch of the imagination, but running had always come natural to him. He liked to spring on his long legs, feeling like he might take flight at any second. It was one of his favorite things to do when his mind felt too full.

It really was not his fault. He was only sipping his coffee in the university cafeteria while glaring at the research papers he was supposed to catalogue and suddenly he’d heard a familiar voice chirp “…And one of those delicious vanilla cupcakes if you will, dear.”

He had looked up, then, meeting Aziraphale’s ( _ Professor Fell _ , his brain reminded him) eyes. He had smiled at Crowley, then, and once handed his cup of tea and cupcake, he made his way to the table. 

“Something troubling you?” Azi— Professor Fell had asked, sitting down without waiting for permission. Crowley grunted.

“Just skirting boring work, you?”

“Oh, same,” Professor Fell airily replied, stirring his tea. “I keep telling myself I will surely be more orderly whenever I clean up my notes, but then here I am again, three months later: notes a mess and the need to procrastinate abound.”

“Truly, we are all undone by our own hubris,” Crowley had drawled in response, winning a laugh. He adored the sound of Aziraphale’s laugh. It always made something in Crowley’s belly do a happy somersault whenever he managed to elicit one.

And then Aziraphale had taken a bite out of his cupcake, a bit of cream sticking to the tip of his nose. No middle-aged man had a right to look this unbearably cute, Crowley lamented internally, but alas—

“You’ve got a bit of cream—“ he said, vaguely gesturing at his own nose. And then Aziraphale had quietly swept the cream off with a thumb, putting it to his mouth and licking it away.

And Crowley had known, he just had known, the sight of that pink tongue darting out in the tiniest lap would plague his mind for  _ days _ .

Sometimes he wished he could go back in time, and stop himself. He had been but a twenty-one year old finally starting university who innocently noticed how attractive his communication & media studies professor was, and thought nothing more of it. And there he was, four years later, almost popping a boner just because said professor licked a bit of cream off of his finger.

He couldn’t really pin-point an exact moment when the fleeting thoughts became an obsession, nor what sparked it. For all he knew he just— Quietly snowballed from distractedly glancing at Professor Fell’s bottom hugged in those filled trousers to purposefully getting into bed with light blonde men, wishing they could be someone else specifically.

Even Ligur had noticed the way he checked Professor Fell out, and when Hastur joined them as their third roommate they both ganged up to give him endless shit about it.

“He’s definitely taken anyway,” Hastur said one time, ignoring Crowley’s glare. “Someone from the STEM department, for what I gather.”

Of course Professor Fell was taken, why wouldn’t he? He was just— Fantastic. So smart, and witty, and funny. And, again, Crowley couldn’t stress it enough, those thighs were to kill for.

He knew he really had no chance, even if he worked his ass off to do well, even if he actively participated and intervened during lectures, even when Professor Fell himself had offered to help Crowley with his thesis, supervise him— Even with all that, with how friendly and comfortable Professor Fell seemed around Crowley, with all the time they spent chatting over email or in his office, Crowley knew he had no chance.

Not that it ever stopped him.

**Exhibit A:**

“—I wouldn’t say your interpretation is incorrect, the entire work is definitely quite open to an array of those,” Crowley was only half listening to what Aziraphale ( _ Professor Fell _ , his brain tiredly corrected) was saying, while leaning over his shoulders to look at the computer screen and trying not to loudly sniff at those soft, white-gold curls. He could faintly smell something sweet, there. “—See this passage? I understand where you are going with this, but this entire section is unnecessarily verbose and goes into too many tangents. You ought to cut down to the chase— I’d say, go for a word count of a thousand words.”

“A thousand?” Crowley groaned, leaning in even more, almost resting his head on Professor Fell’s shoulder in exasperation. “Geez. Why don’t you also cut my head off, while we are at it?”

“How dramatic,” Professor Fell chuckled back. “Remember, dear: Brevity is—“

“The soul of wit. Yes, I know,” Crowley grumbled, sitting back down on his chair right by Aziraphale’s and just giving in, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder with a pout. Aziraphale glanced at him.

“And you have wit in spades, I would know,” he said, cheerful. “So, get to it. Pip pip!”

“Pip pip,” Crowley sighed, leaning back over Aziraphale’s shoulder, pressing his chest against Aziraphale’s arm to drag the laptop back to himself. “You masochist.”

Aziraphale ( _ Professor. Fell. _ His brain barked) chuckled, rising from his chair, and taking away that inebriating sweet smell.

**Exhibit B:**

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

Professor Fell blinked at Crowley’s arm, and then up at Crowley, tilting an eyebrow. Admittedly, Crowley might’ve gone for the nuclear option by pinning his arm against the wall so Aziraphale ( _ …, _ went the brain) couldn’t walk by.

“Oh, why is that?” Professor Fell replied, eyebrow still tilted but not moving away. He was looking up at Crowley. Crowley loved when he was close enough to have Professor Fell look up at him.

“I’ve heard through the grapevines someone’s planning something— So unless you want to smell like liquid ass for the rest of the day, I would go with the stairwell.”

“I would definitely not!” Professor fell replied, scandalized, as if he took the implication he might want to smell like liquid ass to heart. “But, really— Aren’t we in a university? So childish...”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugged. “This is what happens when a bunch of 18 year old get out of high school straight into uni. They are all still fetuses, basically.”

At that Aziraphale barked a laugh, and didn’t seem to mind that Crowley followed when he turned to go for the stairwell.

“That’s rich coming from a consummated, cynic  _ old man _ such as yourself—“

“Oy. I’m positively ancient compared to them,” Crowley replied. “Crumbling into dust at any second, that’s me.”

“Goodness gracious. I might have to claim myself a ghost, then—“

“No, but see, that’s the law. From twenty-five onward, you basically have to retire. But if you manage to get alive to fifty, you get to the next level, it doesn’t count as old anymore—“

“Oho?”

“Yes. You are more like— More like a finely aged bottle of whisky. Something refined, classy, you see?”

At that Professor Fell let out a breathy little laugh, and then stopped mid-way through the third and fourth floor. 

“Do you have to meet the dean, dear?”

“…No?” Crowley confusedly replied.

“Then I think you ought to go to your class,” Aziraphale replied, kindly.

Crowley knew how to take a hint.

And so on and so forth with exhibits. So many, in fact, there was no doubt Crowley would be considered guilty with no chance to defend himself in the court of thirstiness.

There was an alphabet full of exhibits that showed how much Crowley refused to stop hoping he might one day get to snog&snuggle (not necessary in that order) with his beloved professor.

And then, when the alphabet ran out, there were numbers…

—

The trouble with the vanilla cupcake incident was that, in the middle of a three hours long lecture the following day, Crowley had to spend half of it battling with an half-chub that wouldn’t leave the inside of his boxers.

He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t really want to. He’d had a quick wank in the shower when he came back from his run, the previous afternoon, and demanded his brain to take those mental images out of there. Eviction time, no need for contracts, good bye.

But then they came back with a paper of tenants rights, those thoughts. Right when Aziraphale took a sip out of his thermos as students trickled in, and licked the cocoa away from his lips.

And half the lecture was spent daydreaming about feeding chocolates to Aziraphale ( _ Professor Fell _ , the brain tried to protest, but there was so much pure, unadulterated, organically fed horniness swinging about Crowley’s synapsis that it was all lost to the void), keeping them between his fingers just enough to have some melt on his skin. Offering said fingers to Aziraphale, who would lean in and lap them clean, like the most obscene kitten on the planet.

He had so many scenarios in mind, Crowley. There was the one where he just strutted into Aziraphale’s office, suave, smooth, crowding Aziraphale against his desk until he would just beg for release. And the one where Crowley would hide under the desk before a lecture and suck Aziraphale off while he moaned and stuttered his way through one of his lectures.

The one where he saved Aziraphale from a fire (look, don’t judge, we all have our kinks, and when rescuing someone is yours, you have to make do). The one where they ran away together into the sunset. The one where Aziraphale got into Crowley’s room in the middle of the night, confessing how much he’d  _ wanted _ and how he couldn’t deal with it anymore, how he needed him,  _ now _ .

Those scenarios ended more often than not with Crowley’s cock right inside of Aziraphale which, Crowley would argue, was all but the natural progression of things, when you had an arse that screamed sin, like Aziraphale did, and thighs that were made to be squeezed and slapped and grabbed at while getting pounded, like Aziraphale did.

At the third wank of the afternoon, which was rapidly shifting into evening, Crowley stared at the ceiling of his room. He knew what he needed to get his minds out of the gutter, for at least a little while.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, dragging himself toward the closet to peer into it. “Time to get laid.”

—

“Mate, c’mon— Don’t make me kick you out.”

Crowley went still for a second, as he heard those words fluctuate in his direction even through the bass thumping in the background. The place, being his usual hunting grounds, was familiar, and so was that voice.

He’d always liked Jane. She made the most delicious cocktails, first of all, and she did not mind playing wingman when Crowley needed it. Her voice sounded strained as she said those words, and Crowley did not like men who made her sound like that. They were usually dipshits who got into a gay bar hoping to score with the cute bartender, not understanding that the she was the most raging lesbian that ever lesbian-ed in the history of lesbians.

Deciding that his favorite bartender was worth more than a quick fuck to scratch the itch, Crowley ignored the cute brunette who had been checking him out very openly from across the room and slithered through the crowd toward her, displeased by the frown she could see on her face even in the red-purple low lighting. She met his eyes over the heads of the crowd, seemingly relieved when she realized Crowley was marching with intent in her direction.

“Yo,” Crowley said, no amusement to be found in his voice. “Is he giving you trouble?”

Whatever she said next was completely lost to Crowley’s ears, because the moment he turned with a glare toward whoever was annoying her, his mind went blank.

It was Aziraphale— Professor Fell, his mind corrected quickly, again. Half plastered on the countertop, probably completely plastered in general, going by the intense flush on his cheeks and ears, on the tip of his nose. He was pursing his lips tightly, seemingly annoyed despite the heavy lidded eyes suggesting he might just drop his head on the wooden surface and start snoring at any second, keeping an empty glass stretched toward her.

“…Think he’s had more than enough,” Jane was saying with a little sigh when Crowley’s brain managed to reboot. “…’Tony?”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed in a magnificent imitation of a goldfish. Aziraphale ( _ Professor! Professor Fell! _ ) turned to him, blinking slowly, and then a dopey smile opened on his face.

“Oh, hello, Anthony!” he giggled, leaning down until half his face was squished against the countertop. “ ‘dyou know the nice lady? I really just want—“ at that point he released a tiny noise halfway between a hiccup and a burp. “—Just want a bit more to drink.”

Crowley stared silently. Scratch plastered, his professor was completely, utterly  _ wasted _ .

“Do you know him?”

Crowley opened his mouth. Closed it. He had the feeling that replying ‘Yeah he’s my professor and supervisor and he’s also helping with my thesis and I might have a crush on him the size of a mountain—’ wouldn’t go over well.

“I do,” he finally managed to mutter. Aziraphale hummed. “Sorry, what did you say?” Crowley also added, turning to Jane. She gave him a tilted smile.

“I think you better get your friend home, Tony. He’s had more than enough.”

It was hard to argue with her, especially when Aziraphale whined like a plaintive child at that, reaching even further toward her with his empty glass like an aggressive beggar.

“…Why don’t we just get out of here, huh?” Crowley carefully said, gently tugging Aziraphale backward by the shoulders as Jane sighed and plucked the empty glass out of his hand.

“Fine,” Aziraphale haughtily replied, sitting up straighter and then swaying lightly. “Dun’ need— Party poopers. Can go somewhere else—“

“Yeah, let’s go somewhere else,” Crowley soothed him, keeping his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders as he slid down the stool, keeping him upright when Aziraphale swayed even more. “ _ Sorry—“ _ he quietly mouthed to Jane over Aziraphale’s head, and she gave him a tilted smile.

Making their way through the crowd, with Aziraphale risking to stumble on his own feet every three steps, was proving difficult. With a groan Crowley resolved to just slide an arm behind Aziraphale, fingers hooking under his armpit to keep him upright as he elbowed their way out. Once the cold night air hit their faces, Aziraphale giggled again, heavily leaning against Crowley.

“So… Where are we goin’?” he then slurred, and Crowley didn’t turn, not wanting to really see if his professor was in fact nuzzling Crowley’s shoulder or not.

“At my place,” Crowley promptly decided. He had no idea where Aziraphale lived, but his flat was close, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep Aziraphale upright very long.

“Oh— Got somethin’ to drink there…?”

“Sure,” Crowley lied, tugging gently, and Aziraphale went, pliant. 

Crowley pointedly kept looking forward, sweaty palm still hooked under Aziraphale’s arm. He could feel the usual beast in his lower belly stir and yawn, smell the air in an interested way. He decided to try to smother it with a mental pillow. He’d fantasized at length about a similar scenario… Meeting Aziraphale in a pub, being able to sit near him and offer him something to drink… Being able to get close in the low, moody light, and take little sips of some nicely aged whisky rather than the usual cheap cocktails he’d get… To slide closer and closer, their thighs touching…

But in those scenarios Aziraphale was always perfectly sober and put together. He was always a bit sultry and he’d give Crowley little knowing smiles and order for the both of them… Always spoke with expertise about this or that thing while nursing a glass of a gold-amber whisky that would surely fit him so well…

It was nowhere near what was happening now. Not with Aziraphale’s weight leaning on him more and more as they silently shuffled their way through the pavement. Not with his oh-so-coveted professor being so wasted he could barely put a foot in front of the other.

Sweat was breaking on Crowley’s hairline as they finally took a turn at the intersection leading to his place. He was mentally pleading the elevator was  _ not _ broken, tonight.

Aziraphale finally stopped just two doors from the entrance of Crowley’s building.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well—“ he managed to say, quiet and subdued rather than slurred and giggly, and then he turned toward the low fence separating the pavement from the tiny garden on the other side of it, heavily leaned on it, and retched loudly. Crowley grimaced, hoped whoever lived there won’t notice the pool of vomit now sitting under their bush, in the morning.

“Sssh, it’s ok, you’ll feel better—“ Crowley murmured, surreptitiously rubbing Aziraphale’s back as he coughed. Aziraphale didn’t move for long seconds, still leaning over the short fence and breathing heavily. He then carefully rose, patting his pants with a vaguely shivering hand, and producing a full blown tartan handkerchief out of his pocket, carefully dabbing at his mouth and chin.

“…I don’t think it’ll be a good idea to drink more,” he then said, less slurred and vaguely rough. He didn’t turn toward Crowley, but Crowley could still see how tired Aziraphale looked. With a sigh, he put a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“My place is right here, let’s get you a glass of water,” he said, quietly guiding Aziraphale away. 

—

Crowley stood there for long seconds, indecisive.

Aziraphale was snoring slightly, one leg dangling off of the mattress. He had quietly accepted the glass of water Crowley had offered when they got in, rinsed his mouth, and even tiredly brushed his teeth when Crowley had produced a still packaged toothbrush from under the bathroom sink. He had kept quiet as Crowley guided him toward his bedroom, falling heavily on Crowley’s bed, and had pretty much fallen asleep right away.

Crowley sighed. He still had his shoes and coat on, and under the light he could see that there was a wet patch at the bottom of his trouser, probably caused by the man’s own sick. 

He couldn’t possibly be comfortable— Carefully, Crowley untied his shoes, slipping them off of his feet (of course Aziraphale’s socks were also tartan, of  _ course _ . He ought to have been exasperated, but all Crowley felt was an unbearably warm wave of fondness washing over him, as he also gently tugged those off of Aziraphale’s feet). He then carefully took off the trousers as well, pointedly  _ not looking _ as much as possible. He may have been desperately thirsting after his professor, but he wasn’t a creep— Still, he took some seconds to calm his racing thought as he balled the trousers up and launched them in the bathroom sink, filling it with water to give them a quick wash.

Once he came back he also took off the coat and waistcoat. Even though he had to all but manhandle Aziraphale like a doll to do so, the man didn’t even stir, still dead to the world. Crowley left him with just his shirt and properly tucked him in, taking a moment to catch his breath while he sat by the corner of the bed.

Now he needed to decide where to sleep himself— Hastur’s and Ligur’s rooms were out of the question. They might give each other shit constantly, but they all had a silent agreement to respect each other’s spaces in the flat, and even if the both of them were away for the weekend, Crowley had no intention to break that agreement.

There was the couch, it wouldn’t be the first time he slept on the couch— Even if it mostly happened when he’d accidentally fallen asleep while watching a movie, and his back and neck would usually let him know what they thought of that idea, the day after. He really did not like sleeping on the couch.

He eyed his bed. The small double bed was the one luxury he couldn’t give up, especially for someone as tall as he was… And there was still a decent amount of space left, even with Aziraphale in it.

It was fine, right? He was just doing his professor a favor, giving him a place to crash for the night— He had a right to also sleep comfortably. He  _ really _ didn’t want to sleep on the couch.

Crowley sternly changed into his pajama, almost as if pouting at thin air, grabbed the pillows on the couch to put in the center of the mattress, like a soft wall, and then lied down on the other side.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, Aziraphale’s soft breathing almost deafening in the dark.

—

When Crowley woke up, it took his sluggish, disoriented mind quite a bit to put the pieces back together.

It was still in the middle of the night, considering how dark the sky was out of the window, and how sleepy he still felt. It was warm under the covers, almost unbearably so, and there was something even warmer pressing against his back—

Something soft, something that was breathing damply against the back of Crowley’s neck— Something keeping its arms around Crowley’s waist, something pressing against Crowley’s bottom with—

Crowley’s eyes snapped open, his mind racing from sleepy confusion to complete clarity.

Aziraphale was  _ spooning _ him. His hands hooked gently into the soft fabric of Crowley’s pajama, his nose tickling the back of Crowley’s neck, warm lips so close Crowley could feel them brushing the pale hairs on his skin. Aziraphale let out a tiny, needy noise and rocked against him, pressing his rock-hard erection against Crowley’s buttocks.

He’d pondered, at length, about what he’d like to do to his professor. Fantasized about it through a-many wanking sessions. And Aziraphale would always be so pliant for him— So open and accommodating, praising Crowley for his prowess, slowly losing composure until he was a panting, writhing mess.

This was all Crowley had always wanted, and yet— He froze, eyes wide in the dark, shivering when Aziraphale rocked against him again with a tiny groan.

“Ngh…” Aziraphale murmured almost right in Crowley’s ear, making goosebumps rise all along Crowley’s neck. “Gabe…”

Crowley’s mouth, which he now realized had been hanging open in shock, closed with a snap. He turned into Aziraphale’s embrace, and gently pushed him away. He could just barely make out Aziraphale’s features in the dark, his hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, his slack jaw, lips parted. Aziraphale looked back at him, confused, blinked, and then went rigid as his eyes cleared with understanding.

“Oh— Oh,” he breathed out, hands indecisively curled against his chest. He took a look around, at the darkened room, eyebrow twisting in the middle. “What—“

“You. Um.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Drank. A lot. We crashed at my place— I don’t know where you live, so—“

Aziraphale quietly stared back, still with that little fold between his eyebrows. Then, much to Crowley’s horror, his eyes filled with tears.

“A-am I unlovable?” he sobbed, as Crowley let out some inarticulate noises of panic. “I am, aren’t I?” Aziraphale continued, voice rising in pitch. He sniffled miserably, rubbing his fists against his eyes. “What other reason could there be? I’m lazy an’— an’ unattractive an’ boring—“

“No!” Crowley snapped, turning on a side to lean closer. “No, of course not, you— You are—“

_ You are still drunk, you should go back to sleep, whatever it is that’s wrong we can solve it, I’ll solve it for you, I’d do anything for you— _

Too many words tumbled in his throat, never making it out of his mouth. Aziraphale was looking back with huge, teary eyes, cheeks so adorably flushed and lips pink— So pink, so soft looking, so—

They tasted like toothpaste when Crowley leaned in and pushed his mouth against Aziraphale’s, noses bumping. Aziraphale let out a little itching noise, and Crowley felt him go soft and pliant under his chest, felt him tilt his head just so, opening his mouth in a silent invitation.

When their tongues first met Crowley felt like an electric shock ran down his spine, his body lurching forward as he hooked a leg over Aziraphale’s, pressing their chests together. He went in deeper, Aziraphale’s throat rumbling with a muffled groan. Crowley went on the attack, mind filled with nothing but the desperate need, months of wants pooled in his thoughts, quieting everything. The entire evening he’d kept the beast at bay, kept it muzzled and leashed in his lower belly, not wanting to take advantage of his professor—

But now it was free. Now it was taking charge, making Crowley’s hands slide behind Aziraphale’s neck, cradling his head as the kiss went impossibly deeper. Making him palm at Aziraphale’s soft belly over the shirt, and then slide under it, to taste the hot skin hiding there. It was making Crowley push his own hard cock against Aziraphale’s in an almost animalistic rut, making Crowley not lean back even when Aziraphale made a tiny, desperate noise, attempting to take a deep breath even as Crowley kept mercilessly teasing his tongue.

He only leaned back when he felt his own head light with the need of fresh air. Crowley’s managed to gather some shards of reasoning as he panted, tongue tingling with the feeling of Aziraphale’s own, lips aflame.

Aziraphale looked back at him, breathing just as heavily, pupils blown so wide the silver of his eyes was but a thin ring around them.

“You are perfect,” Crowley finally managed to croak, voice grating on his dry throat.

Oh, he was. How perfect he was. With his red, thoroughly kissed lips, the hint of collarbones peeking from under the rumpled shirt. His soft belly moving slightly with every breath under Crowley’s palm, the obvious bulge in his simple white briefs, and those thighs—

God, Crowley wanted to die between those thighs. He wanted to close his lips around Aziraphale’s hard cock, to finally taste what he’d dreamed to taste for so long. Wanted to feel those thighs squeeze him in between as Aziraphale cried his pleasure, as Crowley happily choked on his cock and his cum—

Aziraphale moaned, hips stuttering, and Crowley looked down, mouth full of saliva. He’d been so fogged by his own daydreaming he hadn’t realized his hand had moved down, from under Aziraphale’s shirt on his hot, full thigh, to palm at Aziraphale’s erection.

“Oh—“ Aziraphale exhaled, cheeks flushed and he turned his head on a side, eyebrows scrunched and eyes closed. “Oh— I—“

“What do you want?” Crowley asked, feeling pathetically broken. He couldn’t step back from this, not when his hand could feel the outline of Aziraphale’s hard cock through the cloth, not when he was so close to uncovering what he’d dreamed of for months. “Anything you want— Anything— I’ll do it—“

Aziraphale glanced at him with those bottomless eyes, lips opening but no noise coming out. He saw Aziraphale’s throat move.

“…I wanted to surprise him, you know?” he suddenly murmured, raw. “We’ve been both so busy that we— We hadn’t had the time to be together much at all, lately, and I— I told him I’d come back late, but I was lying,” He paused. “I wanted to surprise him— So I— I prepared myself, and came back home early, ready— Ready for him, and…”

Crowley didn’t move, feeling almost frozen, his hand still on the hot hardness in Aziraphale’s underwear, his other sinking into his impossibly soft curls. Aziraphale let out a rough, broken chuckle.

“He was with someone else. He was cheating— He’d been cheating on me for ages—“

“…So you went and got drunk,” Crowley supplied for him in a raspy whisper, when Aziraphale trailed off.

“So I went and got drunk,” Aziraphale whispered, not quite looking at Crowley. His eyes were far, far away. “I just— I wanted to stop thinking— Maybe find someone willing to… But you found me.”

He turned slowly to fully face him. His lips were cherry red and full, his cheeks two points aflame on his skin.

“Would you fuck me, if I ask you to?” he whispered, voice so low almost lost even into the silence. Crowley felt a hysterical laugh bubble up his throat.

“Would I?  _ Would I _ ?” he replied, hiccupping. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Do you have any idea for how long I— The things I’ve dreamed of doing to you—“

“…Did you?”

“Fuck,” Crowley choked with another tiny hysterical giggle. “You have no idea— God, just thinking about it is driving me insane— You said you prepared yourself? Did you  _ plan _ to get fucked right in the ass?”

Aziraphale let out a weak, shivering exhale. “I’ve wanted it so badly, for weeks— It was starting to get in the way of my work,” he replied, tremulous. “So I—“

“You what?” Crowley chided as Aziraphale hesitated, moving to kneel between his legs, slowly starting to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Tell me. Tell me what you did—“

“I sneaked— I sneaked one of our vibrators and a bottle of lube into my bag—“ Aziraphale replied, breathless. He shivered when Crowley caressed his chest, feeling the soft fuzz of Aziraphale’s pale hair under his palm. “And then I— Closed myself into the bathroom—“

Crowley’s hips bucked as a choked groan rolled out of his lips. Just imagining Aziraphale timidly closing himself in, after making sure no one would disturb him— Imagining as he slowly worked himself open, trying to look behind as he clumsily pushed the vibrator in his hole—

“You did want to get bent over a table and get it rough as soon as you came home, huh?” Crowley asked with lustful glee, sliding the shirt off of Aziraphale’s arms. His soft middle was even more glorious than Crowley had ever imagined, his little nipples dark and inviting.

“God,  _ yes _ ,” Aziraphale cried, throwing his head back. “I just… I need—“

“Did you come? With your little toy?” Crowley inquired, pressing on as Aziraphale felt silent once more. His mouth was watering, fingers sliding under the elastic of Aziraphale’s briefs.

“No,” Aziraphale whispered, and then launched him a  _ look _ , the request so clear in his liquid eyes. Crowley bit down on his lower lip, feeling a drop of pre-come rolling down his own erection. He might come just by being looked at like that—

But he couldn’t, there was so much more laid bare in front of him. He was a starving man at all-you-can-eat buffet, and by god, he was going to take his damn time—

He let out an undignified, plaintive cry when he finally slid the underwear down those gloriously full thighs, Aziraphale’s erection springing free. It was smaller than Crowley’s, but so pleasantly thick, full and heavy, head a flushed red and jolting slightly as misty, sticky pre-come spurted out.

It was the kind of cock ancient artists liked to depict in their art. It was so fitting, because Aziraphale looked like he was made to be sculpted into marble, but just so happened to be born in the wrong century. He carefully cradled it between his fingers, grinning slightly when Aziraphale whined. It was so hot and hard—

Then Aziraphale shifted, sliding down the mattress a bit more, raising his legs and hooking both his hands behind each of his knees, openly exposing himself in a clear invitation. Crowley stared, stared at his gaping hole, the red rim wet— He could see that Aziraphale had prepared himself throughly. Aziraphale shivered with a moan, when Crowley circled the rim with a single finger.

“I don’t have a condom,” Crowley suddenly said, unable to look away from the twitching, needy hole in front of him. “I—“

“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale cried, desperate need clear in his voice. “I’m clean, it’s fine— Are you…?”

“I’m clean too,” Crowley confirmed with a dry throat, carefully shifting up on his knees. He spit in his palm, coating his painfully hard, pulsing erection.

“Then  _ do it _ ,” Aziraphale commanded with desperation, and Crowley closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. He leaned in, drinking into the half-shout Aziraphale released when his tongue breached inside, thoroughly teasing the ring of muscles. A thin line of saliva stretched and broke, as Crowley leaned back, lining himself up.

He took one last look at Aziraphale, baring himself openly, his cock leaking over his own soft belly. At his messy curls, flushed cheeks, eyes darkened by blown pupils. He did not look away even as he finally,  _ finally _ pushed in, feeling the impossibly hot wetness close around his cock, did not look away as Aziraphale cried in pleasure and relief, closing his eyes, eyebrows scrunched and teeth teasing at his lower lip. He did not look away, not for a second, his own pleasure only a second thought in the back of his mind as he started to jack-hammer into Aziraphale’s welcoming body. His hands wandered, along Aziraphale’s thighs, grabbing and kneading at the soft, firm flesh there. Up along his hips, finding the perfect grip to pump into him with intent and speed for long seconds. And then up on his belly, caressing there, on his chest, pinching and playing with Aziraphale’s turgid nipples.

And Aziraphale cried back with unabashed moans, letting his legs fall open as his hands searched for any contact they could find, messily grabbing and groping at Crowley’s shoulders, his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. And then back up, along his neck, grazing his chin and mouth—

Crowley leaned in, and Aziraphale welcomed him with open arms and open lips, moaning into his mouth as Crowley breached in once more, playfully teasing at Aziraphale’s tongue, hands sliding between his sweaty back and the mattress, to hug him close, close, closer, so they could melt into a single being—

“Oh— Oh— Oh!” Aziraphale hiccupped rapidly, squirming and arching his back into Crowley’s hold, his mouth going free as he twitched and bucked, as his insides tightened around Crowley, and Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s cock jolt between their bellies, the gooey wetness sticking to both of them. Aziraphale remained rigid for long seconds as he trembled into his orgasm, and then he slowly softened, relaxed, breathing heavily.

Crowley came back almost through a fog, still unspent and rock hard inside Aziraphale, slowly leaning back as Aziraphale almost melted against the mattress.

“…I apologise— It has been a long time,” he murmured, almost teary eyed, looking at Crowley with a clearly satisfied, spent smile. Crowley cupped his jaw, thumb rubbing his round, soft cheek, a fond gesture that felt almost out of place considering he was still balls deep inside Aziraphale.

“You alright?”

“Mmmmh,” Aziraphale murmured back, and then, when Crowley shifted as to slide out of him, closed his legs around Crowley’s waist with surprising firmness. “No— Keep going.”

“…Keep going?” Crowley replied after a stunned second, mouth dry. 

“I want you to come inside of me,” Aziraphale whispered, eyes dark. “I want to  _ feel _ you.”

And Crowley complied.

—

He kept his eyes closed just a tiny bit more, mouth curved in a content smile.

He just wanted to go over the fresh memories, before starting the day. The fresh memories of Aziraphale’s moans and his mouth— Of his soft body, and the way he readily offered himself with breathy groans as Crowley finished into him. The fresh memories of his arms around Crowley’s back as they messily, lazily snogged after, legs entwined, slowly falling back into sleep in each other’s arms—

Oh, what a perfect night he had been. Crowley felt his cock stir, interested, but he mentally barked at the beast in his belly to calm down. They’ve had more than they ever dreamed of, and if there was a chance of a round two, well—

Crowley wanted to just… Talk, first. Discuss things, maybe properly invite Aziraphale out…

He turned, blindly patting the other side of the mattress. But when his hand found nothing but rumpled sheets, he groggily opened his eyes.

The other side of the bed was empty. Crowley frowned and slowly uncoiled, looking around. He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s shirt and underwear, which had been discarded on the desk chair during the night—

A small lurch of panic seized his belly. He ignored it, telling himself he was being silly.

“Aziraphale?” he called as he padded barefooted into the open area of the flat. There were no noises coming from the bathroom, and when he opened the door he found it empty—

And the trousers that Crowley washed the night before, leaving them drying in the shower box weren’t there anymore. Heart falling down somewhere downward, Crowley got right back out, looking for the shoes he’d left by the door, along Aziraphale’s waistcoat and coat—

They weren’t there. He stood for a long time in an empty apartment, dazed, confused, hurt.

—

“Mr. Crowley, if I can steal a minute—“

That was the first acknowledgement after a full, two hours long lesson. Which wasn’t surprising, considering Crowley hadn’t opened his mouth even once, even when he would’ve liked to intervene. He just sat with a scowl and dark glasses stapled to his face, half-heartedly taking notes.

None of his classmates could have any idea of what was wrong. If they noticed how strangely subdued Aziraphale had been during the lecture, they made no word of it. If they found the fact that Crowley was asked to stay behind suspicious in any way, they did not mention it.

(And why would they? It was common knowledge Aziraphale had been supervising over the process of writing his thesis for months, at that point. It was common knowledge just how much sheer time they spent together, at that point.)

Aziraphale avoided his eyes even as Crowley silently stepped near the desk, while his classmates trickled out the lecture room with happy chit-chattering. Aziraphale took his time collecting his stacks of notes in a neat little pile, sliding it in a folder, putting everything in his usual leather bag. He still did not look at Crowley when he nodded toward the door quietly, when Crowley followed him outside the lecture room, down the corridor, inside Aziraphale’s office.

It was a familiar space. He’d spent hours in that space, at that point. Working at his thesis, discussing with Aziraphale—

Shamelessly flirting with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who was keeping his back turned to him, now, putting the bag on his desk. Crowley watched him take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and finally turn around.

“I owe you an apology,” is what he said, still sounding just as subdued as he did during the morning. Crowley’s mouth twitched.

“Yes, I suppose you do,” he replied, coldly. He’d never felt quite as awful as he did two days prior, when he woke up and Aziraphale had disappeared without even leaving a note behind, in his entire life.

Aziraphale flinched, eyes sliding away for just a second, before he looked back to Crowley. He was torturing his fingers, even as he clearly tried to keep his hands steady in front of his belly.

“I don’t know what I— What I could possibly do to apologize,” he continued, raw, eyes going watery. “What I did— There’s no forgiveness for that. There’s no coming back, I— I don’t think there are words that can truly explain how ashamed of myself I am— How truly unforgivable I am.“

Crowley frowned. Yes, ok, he’d been pretty damn hurt by Aziraphale sneaking out on him, but— That seemed a bit extreme.

“Wait,” he interjected, holding a hand up. “I mean, yeah, I was mad, but— Unforgivable? That seems— Much.”

The tiny, broken little smile Aziraphale attempted to give him was almost pathetic. He clutched his hands at his chest with a tremulous sigh.

“I… Appreciate your kindness, I really do,” he said, voice rough. “But you mustn’t— I know what I’ve done, and now I must face the consequences. I already spoke with the dean, during the weekend, I— I’ll be leaving next week. I also already spoke with Doctor Martens, she very kindly accepted to help you with the finishing touches of your thesis— She was very impressed when I explained to her, and excited to help you finish it. I have no doubt she will do a stellar job—“

“Whoa, hold on, hold your horses!” Crowley snapped, his mind finally rebooting after hearing the words ‘ _ I’ll be leaving next week _ ’. “What? Why are you leaving?!”

Aziraphale stared at him, his face a blank mask. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, silently. Worked his throat.

“Crowley… I took advantage of you,” he then said, voice breaking in the middle of the sentence, but he soldiered on. “I— I  _ used _ you. I let myself wallow in my misery and forgot everything— My duty, my responsibilities, my—“ he took in a shivering breath, looking on a side as his eyebrows twisted in the middle, almost as if he was in pain. “No— No, I am merely making excuses for myself. The truth is that— That what I did was wildly inappropriate at best, and downright abusive at worst— I cannot trust myself to keep teaching. I cannot trust myself not to— Not to take advantage of another young man in the future— Leaving is the only reasonable course of action I can take, unless you intend to press charges, which— Which I wouldn’t blame you for. I’ll come with you and confess, if that is what you want to do.”

Crowley gaped. Aziraphale had all but reduced himself to tears as he spoke, as he trudged on even when his voice broke and he paused to try make it more stable. When it finally  _ clicked _ , Crowley groaned loudly.

“Oh for fuck’s— Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped, exasperated, taking his sunglasses off. He knew how he looked. He hadn’t slept much at all, during the weekend. Even Hastur and Ligur had gotten the hint and let him be, when they came back. “Aziraphale, you didn’t— You did nothing wrong! I was fully bloody consenting to that! I  _ wanted _ that!”

Aziraphale turned to him, blinking rapidly against the sheen of tears on his eyes. Then he gave him a sad, tremulous smile, shaking his head lightly.

“It’s not— I could be your father, Crowley,” he whispered, hands tightening the hold. “I am literally double your age— You are—“

“Don’t you dare say that I’m just a kid,” Crowley snapped, furious. “I’m twenty-five! I’ve been an adult for seven years! I don’t care how old you are—“

“I do,” Aziraphale interjected firmly. “I do care. You may be an adult, but you are still so awfully young— You think you might want me, but—“

“Oh, that’s not demeaning at all,” Crowley replied, sarcastic, throwing his arms out, voice shifting into mockery. “ _ You don’t know what you want, Crowley! You are just a little wee baby at twenty-five, Crowley! The adults know better! _ ” 

Aziraphale stared at him with eyes slightly wide. He closed his mouth, gulped, nervously pulled at the hems of his waistcoat.

“…You are right. I’m sorry. I’m being very uncharitable,” he then said, voice levelled. “I didn’t mean to imply you cannot make your own decision, I just… I apologize.”

Crowley grunted, but before he could have the time to add anything else, Aziraphale spoke again. “Still— Let’s put aside the matter of ages, for now. I— I am your teacher. You could be just as old as I am, and what I did would still be extremely inappropriate. It would still mean I’d be fired on the spot, no matter what, if it came to light. It would still mean that I— That I did not put a stop to this sooner. As I should have.”

“…What do you mean?”

“I’m not blind, Crowley. I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been developing— Something for me, for a long time. I won’t be as presumptuous as trying to dissect these feelings of yours. But whenever what you’ve felt for me was lust, or a crush, or something more— I should’ve put a stop to it much sooner. I should’ve nipped it in the bud, rather than allow you to go on with it, but I didn’t. I— I blinded myself to it. I liked to pretend everything was alright, because knowing a brilliant young man such as yourself yearned for me was  _ flattering _ . I  _ liked _ that. And I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have allowed myself to so brazenly bask in these feelings of yours— I was selfish, and I allowed my ego to come in the way of my responsibility. I put my own needs in front of yours, and that… That is unforgivable. I will never forgive myself—“

More tears had risen to Aziraphale’s eyes as he spoke. As he slid his silver gaze down, like he couldn’t bear to look at Crowley anymore.

Maybe that was why, or maybe it was for some other reason, but whichever one it could’ve been, Aziraphale still startled when Crowley closed the distance between them, grabbing his shoulders.

“Could you— Fuck! Could you stop being self deprecating for five fucking seconds?!” Crowley snapped, exasperated. There was a confused soup of emotions pooling in his insides, like a ball of yarn so tightly messy it was impossible to find the starting thread. “I don’t think you— Fuck that! You deserve it all! You deserve to feel flattered, to feel wanted, you deserve— I don’t care, Aziraphale! I don’t care that you are older than me, that you are my teacher, that you— I don’t give a fuck! I only want you—“ Crowley’s voice broke at that, as he rose a hand to cradle Aziraphale’s cheek, never once looking away from his gray eyes shaded with blue and green and amber— “I want you. I don’t care— You are not unforgivable, because there’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t put your needs in front of mine— You gave me so much! Please— Stop saying these things, stop— You don’t have to go away— There’s no need for you to hate yourself so much, please—“

As he spoke, Crowley’s fingers moved gently, grazing the shell of Aziraphale’s ears, sinking into his impossibly soft curls. He cradled the back of Aziraphale’s head, pulling him in oh so slightly, leaning in closer and closer—

Aziraphale’s eyes seemed almost speckled with shards of gold, from this close. Crowley couldn’t see that, that fated night, not with Aziraphale’s pupils blown wide with arousal and pleasure—

Aziraphale went rigid with a tiny breathy sound as Crowley leaned in fully to push his lips against Aziraphale’s. He went rigid, for just a second, and then progressively relaxed as Crowley pulled him in, his shoulders going pliant, his lips parting slightly— Crowley darted in, grazing the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue almost shyly, before taking charge with a slow but intense need.

He felt so electric— He’d kissed quite the number of people, and had sex with almost as many, but no one, no one had ever managed to make Crowley feel the way Aziraphale made him feel. When their lips met, the world was perfect, like the only way to make it tilt on an axis Crowley hadn’t known the existence of was to kiss the man he’d hopelessly fell for. No one made him feel like Aziraphale did when he smiled and when he laughed and when he launched himself in a passionate debate. No one had made him feel the way Aziraphale did when they were so close to one another, skin against skin, no baggage and no shame, just two men sharing pleasure and passion—

And then Aziraphale was pushing him away gently, stepping back. Then Aziraphale was sniffing quietly, turning away to dab at his eyes almost as if trying to hide it from Crowley. Then Aziraphale looked back at him with something heavy in his gaze, shoulders vaguely slumped.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Anthony, I can’t,” he whispered, something deeply frail in his voice. “I’ve truly grown to care for you, and exactly because of that I can’t do this. It’s not right.”

Crowley stared at him. Whichever part of him wanted to fight back deflated pitifully.

He could see in Aziraphale’s eyes, hear it in his voice. Aziraphale had made a decision, and there was nothing Crowley would’ve said that would’ve made him change his mind— 

Made him see Crowley did not care, that Crowley only wanted him _ for him _ .

“You’ll be fine,” Aziraphale gently said as he guided Crowley toward the door with a fleeting touch to his forearm. It was unclear if he was talking to Crowley, or himself, or the both of them. “You’ll— You’ll do great. You have a bright future ahead of you. You will see, in two years you won’t even remember this old teacher of yours—“

Crowley turned once outside the door, looked at Aziraphale standing by the door frame with red-rimmed eyes and a sad, little smile.

No words came to him, to try and make Aziraphale change his mind. He took the sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on.

“…Have a good life, Anthony,” Aziraphale murmured, voice breaking on that last word, and then he retreated inside, door closing with a soft click.

—

**Two years later.**

  
  


The bell over the door jingled as it opened, let in for just a second the noise of rain pouring outside, before closing with a soft little click.

“I’ll be right there!” Aziraphale called from the deep bowels of his shop, rapidly shelving the armful of books he was putting back in the right place after some inconsiderate customers left them in the wrong one.

He was not the biggest fan of customers, Aziraphale, for someone who had dreamed of opening a bookshop for long years. Granted, the customers of his dreams were all very polite, and liked to discuss books with him, and more often than not they weren’t there to buy as much as just share their passionate insights with Aziraphale.

Gabriel was used to laugh about that, telling him maybe Aziraphale should just create a book club at the university. That had never come to fruition, what with how busy he was, and then, well— Things happened the way they happened, and Aziraphale had to leave. He’d allowed himself a month of wallowing in his soup of misery, before rolling up his sleeves and getting to work.

He’d snatched that corner shop in Soho, putting a not inconsiderable dent in his savings, and plunged into this new adventure. All in all, he was content enough with his shop, and he luckily got by without too much trouble. The occasional rude customer wasn’t a big price to pay, especially since most of the time he was quite happy of being able to recommend a good gift, to discuss the latest release, to hold some singing session with writers he enjoyed and respected.

He sneaked through the shelves, dusting his hands on his trousers, distractedly hoping whoever came in had noticed the umbrella stand in the corner. It was unbelievable just how many seemed utterly blind to it, in a country where rain was an almost daily occurrence.

When he emerged in the roomier corner near the entrance door he was welcomed by the broad back of a very tall man seemingly perusing one of the shelves, short, copper red hair finely styled, slim waist hugged by a long black coat. He had nimble fingers gently running on the spines of the books, and his snakeskin boots heels clicked whenever he took a little step sideways.

Smiling lightly -every customer was different, some were won over by shows of friendliness, while others seemed to prefer a more distant politeness, and Aziraphale always needed a bit to properly adjust to each and every one- he asked. “Can I help you?”

The man went still, slowly took the hand off of one of the books, and then turned.

Aziraphale gaped, knowing that if he’d had something in his hands, he would’ve dropped it.

“…Hello,” Anthony Crowley said, taking off a pair of round sunglasses from his amber eyes. It was strange, seeing him with hair so short, but it suited him. 

“Hi,” Aziraphale replied, breathless, and then his mind went blank. They stared at each other.

“I was wondering if—“

“I don’t know if you—“

They stared at each other again, falling into silence after accidentally talking over one another. Crowley cleared his throat, and then made a vague gesture toward Aziraphale.

“You first.”

“I, ah—“ Aziraphale shifted his weight from foot to foot. He really did not know what he’d even tried to say. “Were you, um— Were you searching for something?”

Crowley looked around, his expression impossible to read. “Searching for something. Or someone,” he then quietly said, turning back to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s heart was beating in his temples, a sting of pain starting to make itself noticeable. He’d developed a tendency to get sudden migraines in the past couple of years, especially when he felt stressed—

“I suppose you’ve found him,” Aziraphale murmured. He had no doubt about why Crowley could’ve possibly gotten out of his way to find Aziraphale in his little corner of London. Surely he must’ve finally seen what a disgusting individual Aziraphale had been, and came for retribution. Well deserved retribution, Aziraphale knew. “Well— Whatever it is you want to say, say it.”

Crowley stared at him, inscrutable. Then he rubbed the back of his neck in a familiar manner.

“It’s not like I had a speech in mind,” he muttered, looking on a side. “I was just… Would you like to go get lunch?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yes? You know, that meal that happens about mid-way through the day…” Crowley replied, his mouth pulled into a lopsided little grin. “You like sushi. You still like sushi, right? We should get sushi.”

Aziraphale couldn’t, for the life of him, manage to restart his brain. He stupidly gaped again.

“You want to get sushi?”

“That’s what I said, innit?” Crowley shrugged. “You can close up shop for an hour, right?” he then suddenly seemed indecisive. “I mean, I don’t want to assume, if you are busy—“

“I can close up for an hour,” Aziraphale interjected, his mouth speaking before his brain could intervene. “Let’s get sushi.”

—

They got sushi.

Crowley spoke. Never of how the rest of his time at the university or his graduation went, no. Aziraphale could tell whenever he got near the topic and then steered himself away expertly, skirting around it like a man who made of walking on eggshells an art form.

He spoke of his job, about how he was starting to make a name of himself. How he’d quickly proven his worth and got noticed by the upper echelon at the paper he worked at, about his role in the investigative work behind the exposé regarding the prime minister that was released not that long ago.

He would casually but carefully poke and prod, trying to get Aziraphale to speak about himself. And Aziraphale, who had definitely made of an art form walking around eggshells in his own mind, would give just enough to keep the conversation going. Yes, the shop was doing well, yes, he had been lucky to find a spot in Soho. Yes, it was a lot of work actually restoring the place into proper shape to actually open the shop. He liked working there, yes, even if he barely had a day off, but then again he was the boss of himself, so he was the one not giving himself days off.

And Crowley laughed, pouring him some more sake and stealing a piece of sashimi from his plate. And before Aziraphale knew it, an hour and a half had gone by, he was happily full of sushi (he hadn’t had it in a long time. It was never the same, eating out on his own), and they’ve managed to somehow hold a conversation that said so very much and nothing at all at the same time.

Crowley hadn’t protested when Aziraphale gently declared he really ought to go back to the shop. They walked there in silence, angry gray clouds hanging heavily above them. When Aziraphale climbed the three steps to the entrance of the bookshop Crowley did not follow, tipping his chin up just slightly to look at Aziraphale.

“What is that you really want, Crowley?” Aziraphale suddenly said, as if continuing a discussion that they never really had. Not out loud, at least. But it had been there, a third presence at their table.

Crowley gave him a long, quiet, impossible to read look. He then glanced down, went to grab Aziraphale’s hand slowly and very, very obviously.

Giving him time to skirt the touch, if he wanted.

But Aziraphale didn’t. And Crowley cradled it in both of his, raising it to his mouth. A shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine when he felt the gentle, fleeting warmth of Crowley’s lips on his skin. 

Crowley lingered for long seconds, eyes closed, doing nothing else but keeping his mouth there. He gave Aziraphale’s hand one last kiss, and then escorted it back to loll at Aziraphale’s side with unending gentleness.

“I want to do things properly, this time,” he then murmured, looking at Aziraphale with the same adoring gaze he’d sometimes wear back then— But back then they were fleeting moments, a secret Crowley kept close to his chest, looking away whenever Aziraphale turned, sure that he hadn’t been caught…

It was never like this. Never so open.

“I’ll see you around,” Crowley said with a tiny smile, and then turned, walking away.

It took Aziraphale five minutes, a dazed walk back in the shop, and long seconds of breathing slowly with both hands over his heart before realizing they hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers.

Not that he’d have to fret for long. Three hours later someone came knocking, and a young man in a grass-green overall blinked at him when he opened the door of the shop.

“Mr. Fell?” he asked, and upon receiving a quiet nod, he handed Aziraphale the bouquet of bright red roses with expert hands. Aziraphale looked down at them, cradling it like a baby. “If you could sign here— Mr. Fell?”

“Oh, yes, sorry—“ Aziraphale found himself dazedly replying, shifting the bouquet in one arm to awkwardly grab the pen he was being handed and sign the slip of paper.

“A surprise, huh?” the man asked with a little smile, tucking the paper in his front pocket. “You are a very lucky man.”

“Yes… I suppose I am…”

The door closed with a jingle. Aziraphale fretted about until he finally found a vase, took the decorative plastic flowers out of it, and gently deposited the bouquet in it.

It was gorgeous. There must have been at least twenty roses in there, the bright red of them accentuated by the tiny white flowers and the green leaves surrounding them. It was packaged in a silky, pale pink cloth with a big white bow— And there was a small envelope clipped on the bow. Aziraphale carefully slid the card out of it.

_ ‘Aziraphale, _

_ I didn’t want to push you for an answer right away. So I thought I’d give you some time to think, but then I saw these, and, well… _

_ I very much meant what I said. I want to do this right. I hope you will give me a chance to do so. _

_ If you want to see me again, here’s my number. _

_ Anthony J. Crowley (who is still very much yearning for you) _ ’

Aziraphale worked around a knot in his throat. Closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He gingerly deposited the card on the counter, propped against the vase.

And then went searching for his phone.

He still could feel Crowley’s lips like gentle fire on the back of his hand.

  
  


END!

  
  



End file.
